


Confession

by brook456



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, It's the best I could do I'm terrible at happy things, See notes for warnings, Self-Hatred, Well less happy and more hopeful?? bittersweet?, basically ford thinks all the things the fandom has been saying about him, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-24
Updated: 2017-06-24
Packaged: 2018-11-18 09:52:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11288811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brook456/pseuds/brook456
Summary: Stanford Pines has let things go on for too long. Now he has his regrets.





	Confession

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dogebode](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=dogebode).
  * Inspired by [Beneath](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/302055) by dogebode. 



> This work is a sequel to the lovely dogebode's work "Beneath" which you should read first not to understand this but because it's great.
> 
> Also special thanks to my beta-reader, thefaceofhoe.
> 
> General warnings: a LOT of self-loathing, mentions of alcohol, insomnia, feelings of intense guilt, anxiety, mild disassociation, briefly implied suicidal ideation, implied ideation towards self harm (this is mildly graphic), generally unhealthy mindsets  
> Also some foul language if you're not about that
> 
> Comments will earn you my undying love.

It was the beginning of January, and the expanse of the new year stretched long and foreboding before Stanford Pines. He sat in the darkened kitchen, one six-fingered hand curled around a glass of scotch, and yet he couldn't quite find it in himself to dare a sip.

Come morning all of this would be forgotten—his brother would rise, well rested and happy, happier than he’d been for over thirty years, longer even—but not tonight. Tonight Stanley was down in the basement with his dreams broken and the one thing that kept him going for all that time stolen, and he was truly and utterly alone.

Not that Ford suspected he could do anything for him right now, confused as the man as, asleep—but that was a poor excuse for abandoning him—after all who knew what Stan might take it up in his head do? But Ford couldn’t bear to look, couldn’t bear to see the damage he had wrought, and as always was only thinking of himself and his own hurt rather than that of his brother.

Thirty years. It never really sunk in, even after the apologies were exchanged, even after Ford truly meant his thanks. The magnitude of spending almost eleven-thousand nights beneath the earth, task turning to habit turning to nature until it could no longer be disentangled from the man’s mind. Until Stanley Pines became nothing but getting his brother back. Nothing, which was just how Ford had treated him.

Because Stanford had been watching for months. Letting him go crawling about down in that basement, doing god knows what—writing, translating, _rebuilding—_ all without breathing a word of it to him. Curiosity perhaps, or fear of Bill, drove his reticence, but no, it was more than that—Ford had wanted his own chance at being the hero, wanted to be the one to save his brother for once, wanted to receive, to earn, to deserve some praise of his own, and how better to do it than like this? Be the only one to suspect that the demon had survived and drive him once and for all out of Stanley’s head?

Oh he said he had learned his lesson, that he was okay with being the hero’s brother, but like everything, it was a lie. Not so much to Stan, though Ford had deceived him as well—add it to an ever growing list of sins—but to himself. Because he could not accept that he was jealous, petulant. Because he wanted to be good enough to be humble.

But Ford was not a good man, and perhaps never would be. Left his brother alone to mourn because he was too afraid to face the consequences of what he’d done. Wallowed in his own self-pity instead of trying to help. Gave up in the face of the impossible—what Stan did was impossible, impossible and costly and _good_ —and while Ford had finally come to thank him for it he was not without that twinge of envy, a hint of resentment in knowing he would never be so heroic. Because for all of Ford’s mistakes the only thing Stan had done wrong was in thinking him worth saving. The only thing he had done wrong was mourning him now.

And he was mourning, no doubt about it—there was never a look more heartbreaking than the one Ford had seen last night, except perhaps that sad face staring up at him from the street all those years ago, abandoned, asking for one last chance…Ford had turned him away then, in his selfishness and anger, and yet the man had given up everything just to get him back. It was something, he felt, he could never truly apologize for, no matter how sorrow he felt, no matter how sincere he was—and perhaps he wasn't even that. Because if he was sorry, _truly_ sorry for who he was and what he’d done, he would have not let things go this far. He would not have considered letting them continue, and continue they might—what were the odds that Stan would return to the basement the next night, start building the portal up once more? That he’d forget its destruction, or worse still, remember? And what were the odds that Ford would let him do it all over again, stand aside and watch until tonight came once more? Over and over—work, hope, loss. Tragic, but allowably so—Stan was happy enough in the daylight hours, and could always be taken far to sea—wasn’t that enough? But Ford knew well enough these were only excuses, and his true motives were all too clear. He was afraid of intervening. He was afraid of doing the right thing. He was afraid—because it would mean telling Stan.

 

In the end, as with all things, Ford did it for himself. Decided he must tell Stanley, but only because he realized he could no longer deal with the lie. Could no longer cope with all the jokes and the grins and the forgiveness _,_ because they weren’t meant for him but for the man he pretended to be, and that was a lie he couldn’t bear. So he confessed—not because Stanley deserved the truth, but because Ford deserved the blame.

The sun was beginning to melt the snow, big white sheets sliding off the roof with a thump—and Ford still hadn’t moved, still hadn’t even dared a sip of his scotch, glittering gold in the morning light. He heard the floorboards creak as his brother began to stir—never one for moving softly, even when trying to creep. The man’s climb up from the basement a few hours past had been loud enough, and in the faint shafts of moonlight Ford had caught the glint of tears upon his face…

He didn’t look up when Stan walked in now, though he could hear the man's footsteps come to a sudden halt in the doorway. And then they were thumping purposefully across the kitchen floor, stopping only at the the other end of the table. Stanley’s shadow cut off the light playing upon the scotch.

“What’s eating you?”

It was good perhaps that Stan was so quick to see that something was amiss, could spy in his manner that hint of despair—it spared Ford the trouble of broaching the topic, watching the good humor melt from his brother’s face. And yet he couldn't help but feel just a hint of chagrin—now there was no way out, no use in pretending he hadn’t just gotten up early to pour himself a drink.

And suddenly there was a silence filling the room, a _pressure—_ it seemed ready to make Ford’s ears pop as he desperately recited the words in his head, staring all the while down at his glass. His hand, curled around it, looked strange—a little too wide—and for one second it didn't quite feel like his own.

Neither did his tongue, stuck dry to the roof of his mouth, as he struggled to keep his voice steady, and even this sounded somewhat off, as if heard from a distance.

“Do you know,” he said haltingly, “about something called…somnambulism?”

Stan’s reply was immediate and loud, broke the pressure and made Ford start from his seat. “Somnambahoohaa?” He scoffed. “What are you—“

“Sleepwalking, Stanley,” Ford snapped, more suddenly and harshly than he would have thought possible. “Sleepwalking.”

“So what?” Ford gave a start as Stan plopped down in the chair across from him. “You’ve been walking around at night—it’s not your fault if you have bad dreams.”

Ford could only stare at him, though he almost felt like laughing. Almost, if the thought of finding humor in such irony didn’t twist his stomach into knots, make the skin around his neck prickle and jump. “Not _me_ ,” he said finally, though not without some bitterness. “You.”

Stan was silent for a brief moment, then shrugged. “Well it’s probably nothing, just a little restlessness, or—“

“Months, Stanley,” growled Ford. “It’s been going on for months.”

Well _that_ certainly caught the man off guard, startled him into shocked silence, and Ford? He couldn’t help but feel slightly satisfied—he had managed to check his brother’s insouciance, prove his own fears right. Because even now Ford still felt that need to assert himself, to make clear that he was the one that knew more—after all, knowing things was the only thing he had left, and he was no longer even secure in this: Stanley had more than once surprised him with his understanding of physics, hard won from rebuilding the portal, and where Ford should have been proud he had merely turned to choosing larger and larger words to express his thoughts. More lies in a sense, more jealous deceit.

“Do you think it’s…him?” Stanley’s voice was quiet now, worried—maybe even afraid. But it was hard to tell—Ford’s understanding of the man was limited, and whenever he thought he had him figured he always found himself surprised, failed to grasp some unexpected depth of emotion.

“I thought so at first,” said Ford, shaking his head, “which is why…” He trailed off. _Why I kept it a secret?_ It was an excuse, the same excuse he had told himself each and every night: that he wanted to avoid alerting the demon. Well he _was_ afraid of Bill; but he was more afraid of the truth, more afraid to admit he said nothing because he wanted to finally solve something on his _own_.

“It’s the portal,” Ford continued, cutting off his own train of thought. “You spent every night for thirty years trying to run the thing—you really think there weren’t going to be consequences?”

“Like what, Ford?” snapped Stan. “The end of the world?”

“No—! I mean yes, but”—he searched desperately for the words—“that’s not what I’m saying.” Ford shook his head. “I just meant that it was a dangerous thing for you—“

“I know what you meant.”

Ford might not have been the best at reading Stanley’s emotions, but there was no missing the hostility in his tone. And for what? Did he really think his brother was going to lecture him on how foolish he had been? After all they’d been through? Ford felt indignant, attacked—his fingers squeezed the glass so tightly it was a wonder it didn't shatter in his hand—but the feeling passed as quickly as it came.

Of course Stan was going to expect insult and ingratitude—after all they were the only things that Ford had ever really given him. Because that was all Ford was. Even now, even trying to tell the truth, he expected nothing but patience and understanding—as if he deserved it! Look how quick he was to anger, to play the injured party, to place his brother in the wrong. Look how much he thought of himself. Nothing had changed at all.

There was a look on Stanley’s face that night—not last night, weeping on the floor, but the night before. A gaze so full of hope and joy and love…for him. For the man whose first move was to punch his savior in the face. For the man who never said thank you. For the man who even now could only muster the urge to tell his brother that he was wrong, wrong to care so much. If only Stanley had left him in the nightmare realm to rot.

“Stan,” he said softly, not sure if he could be heard. He was not even sure if the man was still in the room—at some point Ford had gone back to staring at his glass, and could have missed his brother’s exit, lost in thoughts as he was. “Stan,” he said again. “You spent so long trying to get me back…so long that you’re doing it in your sleep.”

Silence. Dead silence, stretching long before him until he was certain he was completely alone. And then a soft voice. A question.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

If the force of Ford’s stare could break glass, his hand, trembling around his scotch, would have been torn to shreds. He almost wished it, to have the glass explode and splinter and most importantly _end_ this conversation, all those little shards cutting through the tension like so much blood and flesh. But though his knuckles began to blanch nothing happened, not so much as a crack.

He took one breath, then another, hated how he could hear each and every rasp and quiver of his throat. It was difficult enough to maintain composure when lying, even harder to keep it when telling the truth. And he could not back out of it now, not when his distress stood so clear—any non-answer, any dodge would be suspected—why be so nervous if you were only going to say you didn’t want to alert Bill? But the inevitability of confession didn’t calm him, rather, he felt terribly exposed, powerless…perhaps almost as vulnerable as he had been when at the demon’s mercy.

“I…” Ford started, and it was hard enough to do as much, with his words dying in his throat. “I…thought I could handle it.” He found himself surprised at how much he had to fight to keep his voice from trembling—he was not one to cry, though now he was perhaps on the verge of it, even saying as little as he had. No, he had perhaps suggested a hint of overconfidence, and the shame of admitting defeat, but nothing more. Didn’t say that he valued his pride over his brother’s safety, or never appreciated Stan’s effort in bringing him home. Didn’t say that he regretted saying something now, or that he left the man down there to mourn. And certainly he didn’t say that two nights ago he had torn down the portal not only for reasons of safety or even concern, but because he had been just the slightest bit curious in seeing what would happen— whether the cycle would be broken or begin anew, and perhaps, just maybe, he had wanted to see how much Stanley would have missed him.

“And?”

Ford started in his seat a little—he had gotten distracted, caught in yet another spiral of out of control thoughts. It was altogether too easy too lose himself in guilty confusion, especially when it was preferable to speaking, because speaking was real, real and happening now, and real was more terrible than a thousand possible words.

Whatever he said now was made true. It could not be taken back. So he did his best to choose his words carefully.

“You rebuilt the portal in your sleep,” Ford began, measured, even. “And you” —he paused for a second—“finished it.”

These were just facts after all, presented with emotional distance. Without need for justification. There should have been nothing difficult in it—as easy as saying the sky was blue.

“So I took it apart.”

Silence. Stanley clearly expected him to go on, explain what had happened next, but Ford simply couldn’t. As much as he wished to admit his mistakes, whether for justice or merely because he could no longer live with them, the fact was he could not do it, could not even say he had seen his brother cry— _made_ his brother cry, to be more accurate. It was a physical resistance, a tightening in his throat and a burning in his head, but most of all it was the utter conviction that if he dared speak, even move, the sky would rain down the hell, hell more terrible than all the nightmare realm.

Stanford knew, of course, that this wasn’t true, much as he felt it was. There was a part of him still rational, watching this all unfold, and it was the part he wished he could make speak. But his tongue belonged to the self that was terrified, and perhaps for good reason—because both halves of him knew well enough that he could not utter the next word without bursting into tears.

His lip was trembling even now—he caught it between his teeth, almost hard enough to draw blood, but why? What, after all, was so terrible in crying? Perhaps it was in appearing weak—Ford had his pride, his terrible selfish conceit that couldn’t even say thank you for fear of admitting he had needed help. And crying—well the man he pretended to be, that stoic, brilliant hero—would never have cried. He did not allow himself even the idea he might be vulnerable, or worse, reveal it to someone else.

But no, it was not merely a matter of pride. Losing face was one thing, but being pitied…The thought of inducing sympathy through his tears, the idea of being loved despite what he had done—it was all too much to bear.

After all he wasn’t here for forgiveness. To ask for pardon would be to add insult to injury, and accepting it would only go to show he hadn’t changed in the least—it was a cheap way to get out of his guilt, to tell himself he had done no wrong. He would be taking advantage of his brother’s desire to have them happy. He would be tricking Stan once more, and to do so was criminal.

So all Ford could hope for was anger. Mockery too, for crying, but genuine anger. Like it had been before, before he had erased all of his sins from his brother’s mind. The man Stanley knew now, after all, was built up from stories rather than truth, cast in too positive a light, a tale told by a liar. Ford had tricked him into thinking he was a friend, a person worthy of trust, someone there to help, perhaps even something of a muse…

“Stanford?”

“You _missed_ me,” said Ford, and then there it was, a lifetime’s worth of regret come bubbling up through his throat. “And all I ever did was leave.”

Ford was the sort of person who talked, and he knew it. All the words would come gushing out of his mouth in a torrent and no one had the power to stop it. It would often be hours before he would slow down enough to notice how the eyes of his audience had glazed over, or, more often than not, that he was alone. He would then slink off, bitter, chalk it down as more proof that he was an under-appreciated genius, but more likely he had just been showing off as always, and people were merely giving him his due. 

Well he was talking like that now, powered more by emotion than anything planned, fearful that if he dared pause he would lose himself in tears and become unintelligible. He quite possibly already was, judging by Stan’s lack of response, but maybe that was shock, horror at all the things he was saying. That he had allowed him to sleepwalk for months, out of curiosity and pride. That he had not spoken of it until the damage was done. That he had never truly appreciated what Stanley had done—scorned it even, out of jealousy and resentment. These things an more—he was not quite sure what he was saying or where he was going but the general trend of it was that he was bad, having done all these things and thought all these thoughts. So it took him a while to finish speaking, and when he finally stopped it was rather for choking on tears than truly running out of words.

All of this hadn't make him feel better, at least—certainly there was no sensation of lifted weight—everything felt all the more heavy for being dragged out into the open air. If he had spoken from the selfish need to absolve himself, and he was certain he had, he had failed in this, and so much the better—at least he had enough of a conscience left to feel guilty at what he’d done.

Mostly, however he felt physically ill—his ears rang and his stomach squirmed ominously, his face lay slick with mucus and sweat. He had managed to flop over the table at some point, failing even to keep sitting upright, and he lay there blubbering for a good while.

What Ford was was pitiful, and it terrified him. More so that Stanley had not yet passed his judgement—the uncertainty hung low in the air, oppressive. Anxiety raised the hairs on his neck, set the skin of his back tingling, but it stayed his tears. He waited, felt the silence pressing down upon him, heard the faint shudder of his heart. Forgiveness or retribution. Sorrow or anger. Love…or hatred.

“Well Sixer,” said Stanley, “you’ve always been a drama queen, but this is ridiculous.”

Ford lifted his head in confusion. His brother certainly wasn’t trying to forgive him, but neither did he seem upset—not once had Stanford considered any other possible reactions and now he had been caught completely off guard, unprepared for whatever was happening now—he couldn’t quite get a grasp on it.

“You’re not…upset?” he whimpered, more in puzzlement than anything.

“About what?” huffed Stan. “Sure you can be a pain in the ass sometimes, as if that’s news.”

He pondered this for a second. He pondered it long and hard, but he simply couldn’t understand what his brother was saying—was he angry or not? The words were harsh yes, but not uncharacteristically so, certainly nothing out of the ordinary. But if Stanley wasn’t upset than he must be forgiving—and yet he had brushed Ford off with a casual insult.

“So you didn't tell me about the sleepwalking or whatever,” Stan continued. “Would’ve been nice if ya did earlier, but…” He shrugged. “I think you might have even said something about it anyway, if my memory’s to be trusted. Even if you didn’t, well, it’s certainly nothing to cry over.”

“But…” Ford trailed off, understanding, but not really comprehending. For all his fearful thinking, all that time he spent with his mind running over each and every outcome he could imagine, spinning out all the ways this conversation could have gone, he had never once considered the possibility that Stanley would not consider his transgressions severe. Because they _were_ severe—he was certain of it, they must be. How could someone possibly look at him and all he had done and not loathe him, or at least not see that he was inherently bad? Perhaps Ford had managed to trick his brother so thoroughly that even in the face of indisputable proof Stan saw nothing ill in him—perhaps Ford was taking advantage of him still. The man desperately wanted reconciliation, wanted to be happy, wanted the brother he deserved…he was in denial, that was certain—Ford had used him like the monster he was. That was definitely the case, surely must be the only explanation…

“So what are we gonna do about it?” said Stan, still unbothered, casual. “Got any nerdy solutions to the whole solemn-nap walking thing?”

“Well, not really, but…” Ford stammered for a second as he realized his brother had switched topics, and he had been only happy to go along. But the matter remained, it had to be dealt with.

“You really don’t think I…?”

Stan sighed. “What do you want me to say Ford, that you’re a bit of a dick?” He shrugged. “So you might’ve not told me something you should’ve. As for the rest—you really think I don’t know already? Most of it’s just human nature and only an overly-dramatic asshole would worry himself over it.”

Ford might have raised his voice to protest again, would have, if he could, but his words caught on an all too familiar lump of the throat—he sniffed and his vision began to grow blurry.

“Are you gonna drink that scotch or—“ Stanley paused. “Aww fuck,” he said. “You’re not gonna start crying again, are you?”


End file.
